


Gunplay

by Aleaiactaest



Category: Transformers (Cartoon Generation One), Transformers Generation One
Genre: Gunplay, M/M, Object Insertion, Roleplay, Rough Sex, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-12
Updated: 2012-04-12
Packaged: 2017-11-03 13:05:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/381654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aleaiactaest/pseuds/Aleaiactaest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-war. Cliffjumper has long had his optic on Mirage's armour-piercing hunting rifle for purposes for which it was not designed. (Takes place sometime after the end of G1 cartoon.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gunplay

Mirage was not quite sure he had ever seen Cliffjumper sulk so vehemently. Cliffjumper was sullen after almost every society excursion, but he had sunk to a new level of prickliness now. Mirage wanted to hold him and tease him until the mood passed and Cliffjumper was again the passionate, eager Autobot that Mirage had chosen. Cliffjumper was purposefully staying out of Mirage's grasp, however, almost stalking through Mirage's mansion down to Mirage's own firing range. He stopped in the indoor portion, not straying outside, which Mirage took to indicate that Cliffjumper either wanted to stay with shorter ranged weapons for the time being, privacy, or both. Perhaps Cliffjumper was just pausing. He changed his mind often enough. 

Cliffjumper put his hands on the low barrier between the firing point and the rest of the range and leaned, looking listlessly at one of the facsimile construct targets, the one made in a cunning likeness of Starscream. Some of Mirage's acquaintances found it gauche to see a macabre display of foolish wartime grudges, but Cliffjumper delighted in it so, and that was the excuse Mirage gave them. They had no need to know the darkness within Mirage, how every now and then, he liked to prove to himself that he could still drop an armoured military-grade Decepticon with one shot. They especially did not need to know why Mirage kept a facsimile construct of Bombshell.

"Will we be here long? Shall I send for a tray of hors d'oeuvres?" Mirage inquired, generously giving Cliffjumper audial advance notice that he was creeping up on him. Not much advance notice, though, and his hands were on Cliffjumper's shoulders before he could move. Mirage settled his chin on top of Cliffjumper's head but held him only lightly; Cliffjumper had a wicked mule kick when he was annoyed, and Mirage had a bad knee from before the war that no surgeon, no matter how talented, had ever been able to repair entirely.

"Maybe," Cliffjumper said, nearly spitting. "You said you'd do anything I wanted if I put up with that - that - _farce_."

Mirage frowned and reached to run a finger along Cliffjumper's cheek to soothe him. He murmured, "It was a lovely gala, and you shone like rubies, but yes, I did promise," he smirked a bit at Cliffumper's simple rendering of his words, "to please you however you so desired when you returned here. What shall it be? I know you so want to participate in the deployment to Mnp," a green and blue planet much like Earth, though with lower gravity and a nasty case of Reavers, "I have friends in the Council; strings could be pulled." Mirage disapproved of Optimus Prime using the Autobots as a universe-wide peacekeeping force. He disapproved of Cliffjumper remaining in the reserves and hankering over every chance he had at deployment. There were droves of Autobot war veterans with an excess of aggression to vent, but the Autobots could only extend themselves so far, before their tilting at windmills would become falling over on their faces. It had been years, precious years Mirage had vastly enjoyed, since Cliffjumper had tasted the front lines. Mirage was loathe to see Cliffjumper go again, but Cliffjumper was clearly in a mind to abuse that 'however you so desired'.

Cliffjumper tensed and growled, "Sure it isn't your friends that made sure my number wasn't called when we went in on Lucifer?"

"Oh, for pity's sake!" Mirage protested, turning Cliffjumper around and bending him back against the barrier. "My intentions have always been honourable. For all that I was glad you were not deployed to that _hellhole_ , I had no personal involvement in the matter." Did Cliffjumper want to be one of those dead, extinguished senselessly at the hand of some barbaric xeno who had no conception that the Autobots were trying to save them? What had happened to the poor Autobots on Lucifer was unspeakable.

Cliffjumper cracked a weak grin, but his voice was cold. "If I really thought you had, I'd have left already. Mnp..." Cliffjumper visibly struggled with temptation. "No, that's not what I want."

"Did you wish me to take you slumming at Maccadam's?" Aside from active deployment, there was another one of Cliffjumper's fantasies. Mirage honestly had no idea why front-liners had such emotional attachment to such a dive that did not even carry a decent bubbly. If Mirage ever had to stoop to visit, he could at least make sure no one would see him there.

"You know what I want." Cliffjumper's grin was stronger. He must have been enjoying seeing Mirage, who prided himself on knowing exactly what needed to be known, wrack his processors so futilely.

"I am not enlisting in the reserves with you," Mirage said crossly. He refused to be led about again as a common soldier, and the idea of shedding his precious fuel for some cultureless alien was beyond the pale. Mirage did not care if Cliffjumper had some dream of curling up with Mirage again in a foxhole while the shells outside exploded so loudly that they couldn't even hear each other. "There are more Autobots now with my abilities than ever." Mirage was still a bit bitter about how he met the Micromaster Tread Bolt by walking into him while he was cloaked. Of course the ghastly little bomber was a sharpshooter, too. Mirage had seen himself reflected back in those hunter's optics, _killer_ 's optics.

Cliffjumper smirked and corrected, "More but none better."

"That goes without saying," Mirage sniffed, easing up on the pressure on Cliffjumper, though he warily noted that Cliffjumper had not rejected the absurd idea of Mirage signing his life away to drudgery and perdition.

"I said it anyway. I... but... no. This isn't hard, Mirage. What do I always ask for that you won't give me?" Cliffjumper prodded.

Mirage drew back and crossed his arms against his chest, regarding Cliffjumper with narrowed optics. He was no prude. There was little he would not try.

Cliffjumper took pity on him and relented, "It's simple. You, me, and your armour-piercing hunting rifle."

Mirage's jaw hung open for an unsightly moment. Then he pouted, which was also unseemly. Finally, he settled on reminding, a little more frantically than he wanted to, "I bought you a replica," which Cliffjumper had barely touched, much preferring the scatterblaster shotgun Mirage had given him as a different gift.

Cliffjumper turned and looked over at the facsimile construct of Starscream, and he mused loudly, "If the replica was as good as the real thing, you wouldn't mind using the real thing. You wouldn't have anything to worry about."

"It has sentimental value," Mirage said, his body stiffening defensively.

Cliffjumper pushed forward and stood on the tops of his feet, as close as he could get to being up in Mirage face, and he demanded, "More than I do?"

"And historic value," Mirage reminded primly. "It is a Lockstock original. His last." When it came to conventional and nearly conventional projectile weapons, Lockstock was simply the best there was. Ironfist was more creative, a virtuoso with on-board guidance systems and the true creator of Optimus Prime's signature weapon, Mirage was well-informed enough to know. Skyfall was a poseur with delusions above his station. Brainstorm made the most horrifying biomechanical blends. Pincher was the engineer to turn to for chemical weapons permissible by the Autobot Code. Yet if what one wanted was along more mundane but elegant and simple lines, Lockstock had been the one and the only one. The outbreak of the war had also driven him completely mad. He took to rebuilding Autobots as guns, not changing their alternate modes, but changing their whole bodies. Some of his victims went as mad as Lockstock, others retreated into vegetative coma, some were rebuilt into their old forms, some kept gun modes - some kept gun modes but did not stay Autobots. Some, Mirage's sources informed him, remained as weapons in circulation even today. The whole affair was a complete mess but had greatly increased the value and infamy of his own rifle, which was quite mundane and contained no trapped soul, only a magazine of liquid-fuel-powered darts.

"'However you so desired,'" Cliffjumper repeated, putting on a mocking imitation of Mirage's accent.

Mirage took a step back, knowing there was simply no way he could make Cliffjumper understand. Even if his rifle had been made in a bootleg factory in Yuss, he would have felt the same. For Mirage as a hunter, the rifle was as much a part of him as Sky Lynx's dreadful claws and teeth, an extension of his will. They could not be more one if they were binary bonded. As an Autobot sharpshooter, the lives it had ended weighed upon his conscience, but as a covert agent behind enemy lines, the times it had saved his life were more than recompense. Mirage still took time alone atop windswept rooftops, the cold wind skimming over his body, staring down the sights, so close to his optic, not quite touching, not _not_ touching. He could not be more intensely personal with a lover than he was with his rifle. Mirage knew its every span, its faint fragrance, how it fit his hand just so, the very weight of it; the tension and pressure he felt in it when a shot was fired - _the release he felt when a shot hit_. There were no secrets between them, when he hid his true self from the world.

Cliffjumper could not understand. He had his piddly little glass gas pistol, which barely needed to be aimed, which sometimes ended up back-blown by the wind back at Cliffjumper even when Cliffjumper did aim. He had his affectionately-named Killzooka, which was so ridiculous it scarcely deserved contemplation. Cliffjumper had half an armoury's worth of gifts from Mirage, but only half, because Mirage collected weapons as well and needed the space for his own acquisitions.

Cliffjumper could not understand Mirage's sense of honour, either. Mirage lied most prettily and often, but a promise made in good faith, he could not break. Silently, he pulled out his rifle case and laid it atop the barrier. He unlatched it slowly, gently, as if to apologise to his rifle for what indignities would surely be perpetuated upon it. Some Autobots just threw their weapons into subspace and yanked them out lackadaisy, but Mirage was more careful. So many things could affect the scope's alignment, and he cringed to think of what a morass re-sighting the scope would be when they were done. He could have the rifle out and assembled before anyone knew, but he took his time now, fingers lingering longingly on its cool, sleek metal.

Cliffjumper butted in, destroying the almost meditative clarity Mirage had while assembling his rifle. He grabbed, of course, the magazine, and complained, "You're taking too long. Give it here."

Mirage clutched his rifle to his chest, grasping it so tightly his fingers hurt, and he hissed, "Put the magazine away. We won't need it for what you want."

"I want to fire it first," Cliffjumper demanded, voice lowering, "There's nothing like the scent of gunsmoke and the heat of a weapon in your hands."

Mirage supressed a shudder at the thought of Cliffjumper's optic up near his rifle's scope, Cliffjumper's finger on the trigger. The idea seemed like a violation of the rifle's very being. Cliffjumper had no idea how to treat such a work of art, Mirage was sure. If Cliffjumper did, he would pay that poor replica the attention it deserved. Mirage managed to warn, his voice soft and dark, deceptively dangerous as a tar pit, "Don't touch the scope."

If Cliffjumper picked up on that note in Mirage's voice, on the combat-ready tension in Mirage's body, he did not show it, his optics wide with greedy delight as he finally got his grubby little hands on Mirage's rifle. He held it wrong, of course, and Mirage soon found his hands over Cliffjumper's hands, his larger body against and around Cliffjumper's, legs nudging legs, all to get Cliffjumper into some respectable semblance of the correct position, but something was off about Cliffjumper's posture and bothered Mirage even then. Cliffjumper was indiscriminate with a first few shots. Though he could not look away, Mirage wanted to shut off his optics so he did not have to see the waste of those precious liquid-fuel-powered darts, so dear now that Mirage was the one footing the bill, not the largesse of the Autobot army. Even though he could afford enough of them to bathe in them, every fibre of his being, infused with the philosophy of 'one shot; one kill', rebelled against Cliffjumper's waste. 

Even a freshpaint should have had better results with so fine a rifle. Cliffjumper was a seasoned soldier, no freshpaint at all. Finally, Mirage snapped, "Cliffjumper, enough. Are you sure you're sighting with your dominant optic?"

"My what?" Cliffjumper asked, and Mirage could have killed him. 

He took the rifle out of Cliffjumper's hands, despite his protests and struggles, set it aside, and made Cliffjumper face him. Mirage ordered, "Look at the Starscream facsimile, just the right optic, and then cover it with your thumb. Turn off one optic; then the other. The one truly viewing the facsimile is your dominant optic, the one primarily used by your image processing software for precise positional information." A few Transformers had no ocular dominance at all, but Mirage would not wager that Cliffjumper was one.

Of course it was as Mirage suspected. Cliffjumper was sighting with the wrong optic. So when Cliffjumper resumed, his performance was slightly less cringe-worthy, despite wasting the whole magazine. Even when he was in the field, Mirage could have lasted a week or longer on that magazine, picking his targets carefully.

Cliffjumper sniffed at the muzzle. Mirage's rifle was designed for stealth work and had only a faint smell, he well knew, but it was a peculiar one, due to the rocket darts, quite unlike a slugthrower or a blaster. He could see Cliffjumper was surprised and lingered longer, his hands then running back down the length of the rifle. Cliffjumper quirked an optical ridge and commented, "Heats up quickly."

"Most rifles do," Mirage said mildly, inwardly groaning that it would be feel much cooler if Cliffjumper did not treat it like a machinegun.

He added, in what passed for thoughtful with Cliffjumper, "Cools down quickly, though."

"Yes," Mirage agreed. Invisible or not, the last thing he wanted was someone picking him up on thermal with an overheated and useless rifle in his hands.

Then Cliffjumper pointed it at him and demanded, "Kneel." They were beyond the aphorism of 'never point a gun at something you don't intend to shoot'. They had played before with Cliffjumper's silly little glass gas pistol, with his even more ludicrous Killzooka, and with all manner of weapons from the armoury. Back during the war, they had even played with a slain Decepticon's shoulder launcher on top of his dead body.

"No," Mirage said. He still had a few scruples, and he snatched the rifle away, basking a brief moment in the comfort of its weight and the way it felt in his hands. He deftly removed the magazine, even if it was empty, because one could never be too careful, the muzzle brake, because Mirage was thinking ahead, and was glad that he had left the silencer in the case. Mirage wrestled with the thought of removing the scope, too. Bad enough that Cliffjumper had been so close to it already, but if Cliffjumper foolishly failed to mind Mirage's warning, Mirage would have his recompense. He left the scope on, checked the breech to be sure, locked the trigger, and handed it back to Cliffjumper. Being more than fair, he warned again, deadly serious, " _Touch_ the scope, never mind damaging it, and I will pluck out that optic," he reached out and tapped Cliffjumper on his dominant optic, "and have it reground for another scope lense."

Some would have laughed Mirage off for a society fop who could never follow through on such a threat. Cliffjumper knew better. He pointed it and said again, "Kneel."

Mirage went down docilely enough, in a graceful, fluid motion, resting his fingertips lightly on his knees. Of course, Cliffjumper just asked him to put his hands behind his head next and pressed the naked muzzle, bereft of muzzle brake or silencer, against Mirage's forehead. He knew that bore size without a thought, but he never had felt it against his metal. Cliffjumper pushed harder, tilting Mirage's head back, and Mirage shuddered obligingly for Cliffjumper. He placed a quick radio call to his chief manservant, ordering him to keep the servants out the firing range for the time being. As ever, his manservant did not question.

"Hmm," Cliffjumper pondered aloud. "Open up your dataports."

Mirage opened up the dataports on his lower left arm, not acting particularly charitable to the one who had him at gunpoint. There were more exciting locations for dataports he could open, but Cliffjumper was not going to get those now. Cliffjumper shifted to an atrocious one-handed grip on the rifle that Mirage had to steel himself to resist correcting. Then he popped open his own lower arm, slid a cable into his datafeed receiver, and jammed the cable's other end into Mirage's oral datafeed output port on his arm. When Cliffjumper dragged the muzzle down Mirage's nose and to his lips, it was obvious where this was going. 

He still waited for Cliffjumper to order him to suck the rifle. Mirage only did so then with a resigned sigh. His poor rifle! His lips parted reluctantly to allow muzzle into his mouth, and the taste of rocket fuel flooded him, bitter and acrid, even a little caustic. Mirage gagged. Then Cliffjumper ordered, "Use your tongue."

Of course Cliffjumper could tell Mirage had not been; he was tapping Mirage's oral feeds. After taking a moment to acclimatise himself with his rifle's taste, his flicked his tongue against it lightly, then in small circles, up and down, sucking rhythmically at times and without rhythm with others. Some called Mirage arrogant, but he thought any Transformer lucky enough to receive such attentions as he was lavishing on the muzzle and nose of the rifle would be moaning in senseless pleasure by now.

Cliffjumper yanked Mirage's head back further and demanded, "Deepthroat it," shoving the rifle's nose deeper into Mirage.

Mirage supposed he should have been flattered that Cliffjumper thought he was skilled enough to do so; he had never needed to go that far with Cliffjumper, considering his size. As it was, he could, though he gagged a bit more as the cool, unliving metal went down his throat. When Mirage thought it could go no further, Cliffjumper wrapped his free hand around Mirage's neck and rubbed his thumb up and down Mirage's throat until he tried to swallow and took it deeper. He made a muffled noise of pain. The rifle thrusting up and down his throat hurt; it had been a while since he took anything that size went that far down his throat. A rising queasiness welled in him, courtesy of his foiled gag reflex. Mirage squirmed and wriggled, optics dimming, but his pride refused to make him break away.

Cliffjumper let go of Mirage's throat and watched him, not showing any echoes of pain or nausea. Instead, he was absolutely mesmerised watching Mirage take the rifle. His vents whined loudly, and he was licking his lips, eager with anticipation. 

Despite how sick and sore he felt, Mirage knew he put on a titillating show and felt a wicked flush of vanity at Cliffjumper's obvious desire. He licked and lathed the rifle with his tongue as it pumped in and out of his mouth, showering it with the utmost attention. His optics dimmed to a sultry low. The spectacle he made, a comely, sleek automobile Autobot pleasuring a precision rifle, made Cliffjumper, gun nut and automobile himself, shake and quiver with obvious want.

When Cliffjumper yanked the rifle out, Mirage smirked with satisfaction. To cover his relief at having the rifle out of him, he licked his lips languidly, styling himself after a great cat, sated and sunning. Cliffjumper dipped the muzzle into a shoulder wheel well for a teasing moment, trailed it down Mirage chest's, along the long arc of the race car front on his chest, and pulled it down, down, down, all the way to Mirage's inguinal plating. He ran its length along Mirage's inner thighs, careful of the scope, to Mirage's pleasure on both accounts. Cliffjumper jammed another cable into Mirage, tapping Mirage's pelvic datafeeds. Mirage felt that was faintly unfair, and he bit his lip when Cliffjumper reversed the rifle and came at him from behind. The butt of the rifle rubbed against his inguinal plating and came out between his thighs before vanishing back between. The rifle was not alive, not like a Transformer, and he could feel the difference so starkly when it slid against his plating again and again.

Mirage allowed himself to be aroused. He had a discriminating appetite, patience, and better control than most. He could be devious and make Cliffjumper wait for hours before there was so much as a stiffening of his probe or the slightest trickle of lubricant in his port. He could make Cliffjumper wait forever. However, his throat ached, his bad knee was starting to feel numb from the kneeling, and really, Mirage had a lovely time with Cliffjumper at that gala, he really did, and Cliffjumper had been so sweetly obliging, despite the audacity of Mirage's request. Mirage wanted to get his, and he especially wanted to get his with some dignity before his knee gave out under him.

Cliffjumper felt the change in Mirage's receptiveness over the feed and sprang into action, sliding the rifle out from between Mirage's legs to push it demandingly against his skidplate. He ordered, "Face down on the floor, hands stay behind your head; aft up."

Mirage groaned. So much for getting his weight off his knee. At least the movement let him flex it a little to work out the stiffness, though pain spiked through the numbness. 

"Open up, port and probe," Cliffjumper demanded, nudging him with the muzzle.

The probe Mirage had been built with was slender but long, elegant in its sleekness, with blue racing stripes over the white, and he almost never used it anymore. It was a little too thick for Cliffjumper and much too long. Every lover was so finicky, and Mirage had built up quite a collection of different probes in his long life, some probes more exotic than others. Cliffjumper's tastes were simple: a probe that fit inside him, with a good stiffness, not too long, not too thick, and cut with blue grooves around the circumference, like the handgrip of a rifle and equally designed to dissipate excess heat. Mirage extended that one, which was starting to stiffen but not yet erect, and retracted the cover over his port, which was slightly wet but relaxed.

Cliffjumper teased him a little, rubbing the rifle along Mirage's port and the underside of his probe both, waiting for Mirage's probe to be erect and for lubricant to trickle down onto the barrel. Mirage made him wait for it, despite his knee smarting at him. When Mirage could really feel the heat of the friction, he relented, concerned what a friction burn could do to the poor, abused weapon. 

Without ceremony or warning, the muzzle plunged into his port, warm now, but not warm like a lover, and utterly alien. Toys were old hat to Mirage, even weapons used as toys, but he just could not get past the idea of his poor rifle, the only thing that could bear witness to his darkest of secrets, entering his most secret place. Being penetrated with his own severed finger could not be stranger, and the rifle was longer and wider. Mirage could not possibly take it all, but Cliffjumper took it as deep as he could go, playing with the angles until he found one that gave him the whole length of Mirage's port.

Cliffjumper quaintly refused to use anything other than the probe the factory gave him, which was average for his size, insisting that size and bells and whistles on a probe, like ridges or vibration or sonic stimulation, were for wusses. Mirage found it ever so amusing, given how the grooves on his probe made Cliffjumper howl. Used to Cliffjumper's petite probe, the size of the rifle staggered Mirage. His view was only the floor, but he shut his optics off anyway, to keep himself from crying out. Sensation, no matter how vast and intense and painful and sublime, was not Mirage's master.

Mirage could pick out the thin line of ecstasy in the agony and enjoy it, sipping at it, pacing himself. Cliffjumper, who felt exactly what Mirage did, could not. The best end was not the climax, although climax was not without its own charms. The best end was Cliffjumper begging Mirage to come so that Cliffjumper could, too. Cliffjumper was rash and reckless and wanted everything to be fast. Mirage would take his time.

The movements of the muzzle within his port grew more creative and erratic, grinding against the spots that triggered the most delight in Mirage. His tongue clicked against the back of his mouth, and he held firm. The gratifying wet cadence of in and out, shallow and deep, pausing and grinding could stretch on as long as Mirage wanted.

Cliffjumper broke, as Mirage knew he would. His fingers brushed down, against Mirage's probe, and his demand was choked, wavering with lust, "Come."

The overload took Mirage slowly, without hurry, and he prolonged it, rolling over to finally get off that knee. Smirking with satisfaction, he watched Cliffjumper writhe and gasp. Cliffjumper's hands clutched at nothing at all, and the cables tangled over his body. Mirage reached down and pulled out his pitiable, soaked rifle, studying it for the cleaning it so richly deserved, all the better to nonchalantly ignore Cliffjumper's flailing climax.

When Cliffjumper's panting subsided, Mirage climbed over him on all fours. He let his bad knee rest comfortably on Cliffjumper's hip and dipped his nose down to just barely scrape Cliffjumper's. Asking one last sacrifice of his rifle, he laid it across Cliffjumper's neck and pressed down ever so gently, using it as a restrictor bar. Cliffjumper was spent and wasted, but he struggled some, vents whining at the drop in energy flow to his head. What a pretty little prize he made to a patient hunter. The muzzle end of a gun was only one way to subdue, after all. Endurance hunting simply waited for the prey to drop, exhausted and helpless. Hands folded neatly atop the rifle, Mirage moved his head to the side, to hide his too-sharp smile, and whispered in Cliffjumper's audio, "Better open up, love. I have you."

**The End**

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Mnp is from the Allspark Almanac, labelled 'Kita's world'. This is a little nerdy joke on my part, because Spotlight: Cliffjumper featured Kita's world. Lucifer is a Decepticon-controlled planet in a few different continuities. Reavers are meant to be a Firefly reference. Yuss was a small backwater town in Marvel. The other weapons engineers are canon, but Lockstock is an OC.


End file.
